Tell Me Why
by justbecauseofthis
Summary: "You have no technique whatsoever. Your movements are an absolute train wreck. And you can't win to save your life." Eren's eyes flash with anger, and Mikasa is aware that she has hurt his feelings. "But I like watching you because you fight with your whole heart. And to me, that's more important than skill or talent." Eren/Mikasa Levi/Hanji Modern day AU.


**Prologue **

One fighter. There is only one that Mikasa likes to watch. His tightly clenched fists, protected by his blue fingerless gloves, are positioned in front of his face at chin-level. His dark brown hair is unruly and stringy, already dripping with sweat even though less than a half-minute has passed. Glistening beads roll down his temples to the outer corners of his clear, intense eyes that are set beneath an unceasingly furrowed brow. Smoldering like low burning embers, his eyes are the color of the ocean, the sea, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes gray, sometimes all three. These are Eren Jaeger's eyes.

His teeth are showing menacingly as he glares at his opponent with an almost palpable heat that Mikasa can feel. She wonders if his opponent can feel it too. Then Eren takes a right cross to his jaw. His head spins to the side, and he is thrown off balance. Mikasa grimaces. How could he make such a lousy mistake? _Never drop your hands! _she wants to yell. Eren's opponent drills him with hard jabs to his side, and the display of Eren's swelling bruises amuses the crowd. They cackle like madmen in a high. _It's only been half a minute, _Mikasa wants to shout at Eren, _what are you doing? _

Eren gracelessly shoves his opponent off, grappling him against the ring. He manages a knee to his opponent's gut, then reels back a fist. It is a wild swing; Eren misses his opponent completely.

"Whoa," she hears the announcer say, "that was embarrassing."

Then a series of hard, critical blows, one after the other, overwhelm Eren. He is pushed back, stumbling, staggering, body folding over. His opponent lands an uppercut. Blood and drivel go flying out Eren's mouth. Then Eren is trapped, cornered, getting thrashed, skin and muscles rippling with each hit. But still, he remains on his feet, refusing to back down.

"What's with this rookie? He's trash! Why the hell does he keep fighting?"

Mikasa glances at the man talking about Eren. "Keep watching," she mutters. People always stop watching before the fight is over. But they should never tear their eyes from Eren until the bell rings. What makes Eren so captivating isn't his capacity or talent or sheer skill. It is something much greater than that.

Eren slumps against the ring's fence, looking broken and pathetic, wheezing, gasping, chin tucked, eyes down. His opponent slows, believing that he has this victory in the bag. Then Eren's head snaps up. Blood dribbles out his mouth and he has a cut on his eye, but his glare is as strong and heated as it was from the start. His eyes are _burning_, and Mikasa knows Eren's opponent is in for it. Eren lunges, fists swiftly pounding into his overconfident opponent, cracking with vengeance, muscles churning in his shoulders and back, glossed with sweat. Outside Eren is bloody and sweaty and broken. But inside he is alive and thrumming and strong. The more hits Eren takes, the more his passion is fueled.

Eren's energy and intensity shock the spectators, the rival more so—he is forced backwards, arms raised protectively in front of his face as Eren smashes his knee into him.

"How the…?" says the man that had insulted Eren. "He can't. There's no way he can win. He just—"

"You're right," Mikasa says. "He can't win. Not at this point. He's made too many errors. But he's also aware of that—it doesn't matter to him because he doesn't give up." In the end, when the judges tally the score, Eren will lose. He always does. But Mikasa likes to watch him anyway. The fire in his eyes motivates her to do her best in her own battles. She wants to fight with all her heart the way Eren does. She wants to be just like him.

"Mikasa! What're you doing here?!" Armin pushes her towards the exit. "Your fight is next!"

"I wanted to see Eren…"

"He's fine. You need to go!"

"But I—" She turns over her shoulder, not wanting to miss a second of Eren's fight as Armin shepherds her through the crowd.

"Don't worry about him. You can see him after you win." He gives her one last shove out the door, then hurries back, snaking through the spectators to the front near Eren's side of the ring.

"I'm not worried. I just..." but Armin is gone. She sighs and makes her way to the women's side of the arena. She sees her trainer waiting at her end of the ring, his legs straddling the back of a chair, arms rested on the backrest, and a cigarette hanging haphazardly out of his mouth.

"Sir, smoking isn't permitted here," says one of the officials.

Levi deliberately blows curls of gray, wispy smoke, without bothering to look at the official directly. "That so?" He sticks his cigarette back in his mouth and takes in a long drag.

Mikasa snatches the cigarette from his lips. "I'm here."

"You're late."

She passes the official the cigarette, and for a minute he simply stares, unsure of what to do with it—then he takes it and leaves, almost certainly, Mikasa thinks, to finish the smoke himself. Mikasa unzips her jacket, drops her sweatpants, and starts her warm-up stretch routine. Left arm across her chest—pull. The muscles in her shoulder extend, and she rolls her head slowly from side to side, feeling her tension release.

"Where were you?" Levi asks, flat and uninterested.

"Watching Eren."

"That rookie? Why?"

"I want to be like him."

Levi has a permanent frown fixed on his face that deepens at Mikasa's answer. "If it's been your aim to lose each match, then you've been failing miserably."

Mikasa gives him a long, vacant stare. "I want to win."

"That rookie doesn't win."

"If you watch him fight, then you'll see what I mean."

"I'll pass."

Mikasa slips on her gloves. They are black and worn, the knuckle padding cracked. She could use a new pair. "Just watch him and don't look away until the round is over, not for a second."

"How about you keep your eyes on your opponent and _focus_. No more fantasizing about underdog rookies. Got it?"

She scowls at Levi. "I don't fantasize about him. I admire him." Annoyed, she tugs her glove with unnecessary force and lifts her fists in front of her face. She gives a few prep jabs. "You would too if you watched him."

"I won't disagree because, for all I know, you could be right. I don't know the way this guy fights. However, that isn't my concern. My only concern right now is that you"—he grabs her shoulders and twists her around to face the other end of the ring—"keep your hands up and elbows down."

Mikasa lowers her hands as an idea hits her. "You could train him. With your help he could win."

"Tch. I refuse. I train only ambidextrous people."

"You mean you train only family."

"It happens that the Ackerman's are ambidextrous, so yes. That's correct. I train only family."

"I'm the only one." Does that mean he won't train anyone but her?

There is a pause before Levi replies. "Focus, Mikasa," he murmurs. "Don't make any blunders." He taps her gloves and carries the chair off the ring. Mikasa and her opponent, who is an unfamiliar face, a face that she will not remember at the end of the day, tap gloves, as is custom to show sportsmanship before they pummel into one another, and then they spread their legs, squaring-up. _Ding! _The match initiates.

The instant the final round ends, Mikasa runs to the infirmary where fighters who have suffered minor injuries go to be attended to. She finished her fight quickly and cleanly, and Levi is taking care of the interviews, not that he really does anything. Levi is as well-known for his legendary record as for his unsociable and disagreeable personality. Reporters are wary to approach him; therefore, few interviews are given and fewer questions are asked. It is only in the case that their sponsor, Erwin Smith, shows that reporters get the interviews that they want. But Erwin was too loaded down with other business matters to attend this tournament. With Levi being the lone available interviewee, it is inevitable that the reporters' efforts will be thwarted.

Mikasa approaches the door. The sharp stench of peroxide and the gust of icy air-conditioning reach her. The stark lightning is disorienting; the walls are radiant and blurry, and she has to rapidly blink before her eyes adjust. Then she sees Eren sitting on the edge of a cot. He has a bandage over the cut above his left eye on his brow-bone, and Armin is dabbing a cotton pad on his split lip. He hisses; Armin flinches.

"Sorry…" Armin attempts to dab Eren's wound again, but Eren catches his wrist.

"Stop. It's fine." He sweeps his tongue across his full lower lip, then scrunches his nose. "Ick. Tastes nasty."

Armin turns, noticing Mikasa first. He doesn't say anything as he exchanges uneasy looks between Mikasa and Eren. Then Eren glances at Armin, realizes that Armin is looking at the door, and follows his line of sight. He frowns when he sees Mikasa. She steps inside.

"What were you thinking?" Eren demands, his fingers angrily curling around the edge of the cot. "You could've missed your match!"

"I'll always watch you."

He slides off and marches up to her. "Don't you get it? I don't want you watching me!"

That feels like a slap across Mikasa's cheek, and she lets her hair fall over her face like a curtain. Eren is her best friend, practically her brother, and he doesn't want her there watching him, supporting him. He doesn't want her there _with_ him, and that hurts worse than if he had actually hit her.

"Eren," Armin interferes, "you don't mean that."

"I meant every word."

Mikasa locks her gaze with Eren's. "Why do you hate me watching you so much?"

Eren's eyes are deep-set, and his eyelashes are thick and dark and long, touching just beneath his temperamental brow. "I don't want you to watch until I can win."

"I don't care if you win or lose."

His eyebrows pull together until there is almost no space between them. "Who wants to watch someone _lose?_" he demands with a slight growl in his voice.

Mikasa isn't fazed. "You have no technique whatsoever. Your movements are an absolute train wreck. And you can't win to save your life." Eren's eyes flash with anger, and Mikasa is aware that she has hurt his feelings. "But I like watching you because you fight with your whole heart. And to me, that's more important than skill or talent."

She watches as the strain between Eren's brows loosens. His knuckles are chafed; his ribs are black and purple; and his collarbones are still glistening with sweat. She flicks her eyes to the wall. "You just need the right trainer. If I convince mine to agree to take you in, will you accept?"

"What makes you think your trainer is any better than mine?"

"Because he's—"

"Mikasa,"—Mikasa jolts—"I told you not to be late."

Eren's jaw hangs in astonishment as he ogles past her shoulder at Levi. "Aren't you Levi? The legend? The undefeated titleholder?" His eyes pass from Mikasa to Levi and back to Mikasa multiple times in bewilderment. "You know each other?"

Mikasa's stomach sinks at Eren's sudden enthusiasm. She has heard that admiration a thousand times and a thousand times Levi has outshined her. "He's my trainer," she tells him. Levi's reputation is unparalleled. People have dubbed him the world's strongest fighter. It is not until this moment that Mikasa considers the possibility of Eren acting like everyone else. Will he use her to get to Levi? False friendships. Mock flattery. Simply because she has the same surname as "the world's greatest fighter."

Eren is found dumb. "Your trainer!" he echoes, incredulous. "You weren't kidding when you said your trainer was better than mine."

"This guy," mutters Levi, "is the rookie?" He is clearly unimpressed.

"Huh?" Eren frowns. "You told him about me? What'd you say?"

"You don't have time for this." Levi takes Mikasa's arm, pulling her out the door. "You have another match in ten minutes."

"Wait, I—"

"There you are, Eren!" A woman wearing glasses has her head poked inside the room. She purses her lips, sizing up Levi. "Oh, you found a playmate?" She puts her elbow on Levi's shoulder, casually leaning on him, and Levi stares at her elbow as if he can't believe she has the audacity to touch him.

"Hanji, don't—!" Horrified, Eren throws his hands out in front of himself as if to stop her, but they freeze, awkwardly hanging in the air. "That's not—!" The color in Eren's face drains.

Hanji bends her body to look Levi in the eye. "Wait a second. You're familiar. Do I know you?" Levi evenly stares at her, saying nothing. Then she snaps her fingers in sudden revelation. "You're Levi Ackerman! AmIright?" Again, he is silent, evenly staring. "You are!" She grabs his hand, shaking it with fervor. "It's an honor to meet you! You're the real deal, huh? You're a lot smaller outside the ring, though. Mistook you for a child."

Eren palms his face in amazement. "…Hanji." Then he looks up, realizing something. "Wait. Ackerman? That's your surname?" Eren narrows his eyes accusingly at Mikasa. "Why didn't you tell me that you're related to Levi?"

"It never came up."

Hanji grins at Levi. "I've watched a lot of fights over the years, but my absolute favorite is your first fight. The whole crowd was booing you…remember? _'Kill the runt!'_ they cried. Haha!" She tosses her head with a laugh, oblivious to Levi's unamused frown. "I won five hundred bucks that day because I bet everything in my pocket on you. I was positively certain that you'd be victorious."

Levi's brows draw together. "How?"

"Because of the way you drank from your water bottle."

Levi blinks. "…"

She seizes his right hand. "First you drank like this." She maneuvers his hand as if he were bringing a bottle to his mouth, fingers curling horizontally. Then she drops his hand only to grab his left one. "Then you drank like this." She spreads his fingers as if they were steepling the top of a bottle. "It's easy to grab a water bottle by wrapping your fingers around it like a handle. It's harder to grab it from the top like you did with your left hand, which could only mean"—she adjusts her glasses—"you were naturally ambidextrous. And that's an innate talent. You can't learn it; you're born with it. Your rival didn't stand a chance."

Levi stares. "…You're observant," is all he says.

"Indeed." Hanji's eyes are wide behind her glasses, glinting disturbingly. It is like she is looking beyond Levi, seeing directly into him, reading every thought that passes through his head, learning all of his secrets, and Levi has never felt more unnerved. "If you want to win, you have to know all the insignificant details about your opponent: what he likes to eat, what he doesn't, how many times he goes to the bathroom, what kind of women he likes, which leg he crosses when he sits down—all of it matters. _All _of it means something. Every little detail is important, because even the most unimpressive fighter can win if he knows what makes his opponent tick."

"While I have no experience with that kind of thinking," says Levi, "I can see the value in what you're saying."

He starts to step out the door, but Hanji blocks his path. There is a delighted sparkle in her eye. "You can?"

"You're in my way."

"Oh, sorry!" She quickly moves aside, and Levi and Mikasa pass, but Mikasa turns over her shoulder, looking at Eren as she is swept back into the arena. Eren is watching her too, and Armin is next to him.

Hanji puts her hand on Eren's shoulder. "You should ice your injuries."

"Yeah." Eren's gaze doesn't leave Mikasa until the doorway cuts off his view. Then Mikasa turns face forward to another fight that she will win without even trying. She isn't at all like Eren. She isn't filled with passion or intensity or fire. But she wins. Always. She wonders what Eren will feel like when he wins. She wants to see it. She wants to see the expression that he will make. More than anything she wants to see his eyes. Will they _burn _with an intensity that nothing could ever match? She thinks that they might…and she thinks that she will make it happen.


End file.
